


What if we never got to say goodbye?

by seasons_may_change



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 06:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasons_may_change/pseuds/seasons_may_change
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Does it ever go away?" she mumbled. "That scent of burnt flesh, that feeling of decay?"<br/>He half-smiled and squeezed her. "No" replied he.</p><p>    After Watson survives an abduction by one of Moriarty's lieutenants, she finds herself having second thoughts.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first fanfiction.  
> I have really put much effort to it, so I hope you enjoy it!  
> I am greek, so you will probably find some grammar mistakes. My english is hopefully good though(I owe it to lots of english books, series movies etc). Please feel free to comment and correct any mistakes that you may notice.  
> There's no romantic joanlock, although I sort of ship it. But I feel that joanlockers will find it quite fulfilling. So, the "teen and up audiences" rating refers to some philosophical ideas that I used and developed.  
> Also, some things may not seem to make sense if you haven't watched the second season of Elementary.  
> Enjoy!!!

   He took a brief look at his watch.

   01:14

_What's taking them so long?_

 

  He sat on his sofa, hands on his head, trying to prevent the tears from streaming down. Much to his dismay, he could not help but reminisce the evening that had just passed. _Good lord, it felt like ages ago_. Like between managing to trace Watson and her kidnapper down-obviously one of Moriarty's lieutenants- and that very moment of reflection and remorse, an eternity had flew. _It isn't remorse_ , he mused. Because, if history were to rewrite itself, he would have done the same mistake again. He would have come up to this man, who stood there, hands in the air and a smirk on his lips and he would have, once again, stabbed him in the abdomen.

   But he would have also gone to her, he pondered and gritted his teeth. He would have gone to her, who was lying on the floor, palm on her shoulder to avoid further blood loss, and he would have held her hand. He should have been there for her, not "grounded" by Captain Gregson due to his sudden burst out. But how could he not burst out? If not for Sherlock's epiphany, this man would be Watson's killer.

 _Watson's killer_ , he repeated. How could he possibly be able to live after that, knowing that he led to death the woman that, only two years ago had showed up in his meager life as a mere sober companion? The woman that had saved him from his misery, his excruciating and slow death?

   There was not much to recall after that. Gregson's voice though, was inscribed in his memory: " _Restrain him, Marcus!_ " he was yelling. But it was not for the kidnapper. No, the kidnapper had surrendered without causing any further trouble. It was for him. They told him he was in a shock and, as detective Bell grabbed his shoulders, Sherlock believed them-because his hands were trembling, his heart was throbbing and he could feel the adrenaline running so fast through his veins. He tried to meet her gaze, to even get a glimpse of her, but she was long gone. The paramedics had carried her away from the crime scene.

 

   The doorbell interrupted his train of thought. Promptly, he made a beeline to the door. But, instead of Watson, Oren was outside, wearing a heavy coat with snowflakes landed on it by the constant snowfall.

   "They are bringing her now" he said firmly. His eyes were still and his features almost stiff. Still, Sherlock could discern the vulnerability in his voice. He nodded his head and invited him inside.

   "No, I'm not staying" he murmured. "But there's something you need to know. I still think that her sudden change in life-becoming a detective- was ill-advised." He paused. "They told me what you did. You saved me the trouble of strangling this man with my bare hands." There was a rage in these words that Sherlock could sense. "So, you take good care of her." were his final words before patting his shoulder, turning around and walking away into the cold, gloomy night.

   He stood there, motionless, unable to decipher Oren's final sentence. Through all the vastness of the english language, Sherlock could not make out if it was a command or merely an acknowledgement _. Should he have replied? Should he say "thank you" or "I'm sorry"?_ The words would not have come out with ease, he knew that pretty well, but, nonetheless, he felt that he should have had reciprocated in any way.

*****************************************************************

   He could not approximate how much time had gone by when a police car pulled over and the Captain came out and climbed the stairs with Watson in his arms. "She's still unconcious from the surgery. She took 14 stitches, but she'll manage.."

   Sherlock took a good look at her. She seemed eerily stoic, her eyes closed, resting on her eyelids. Her skin looked pale due to her blood loss and her hand, slipping out from the blanket, seemed cold. He was so happy to see her again. It'd only been a couple of hours but he had missed her more than he could ever enunciate.

   "Hey!" Gregson yelled, pulling him back to the present."How many times do I have to ask you? Where's her bedroom?" His voice seemed angry, as if he was repeating the question for the umpteenth time. Sherlock, still with a gazeless stare, nodded and lead him to her bedroom upstairs. Slowly, the Captain placed her to the bed and pulled a blanket over her body. Then, with a vehement tension he took him by the left arm and dragged him to the living room.

   "Now look, I'm not going to suspend you, Holmes, but given what you did-look at me." He obeyed. "Given what you did, given your state and given Watson's condition, I'll give you a break. One week, in which I want you to take care of her, in which I want you to think about what you did. I warn you" said he while raising his left eyebrow. "Don't you dare to show up at the precinct." Tobias Gregson could look pretty intimidating when he was vexed. Then, without saying another word, he stormed out, shutting the door behind him.

   After a brief moment of recollection, Sherlock decided to check on Watson. He knew there was nothing to check on but still he felt an urge to go there. As he sat on the chair by her side-the chair that had almost became his own- she seemed so calm, so tranquil, so.. _divine_ , he ventured to think. _"Divine"_? He was almost certain that he didn't believe in divinity, in a greater force meddling with the terrastial issues. _But, what if human is actually divine? What's wrong with that idea? Isn't the human brain itself a power in which anyone can find consolation and redemption?_

   Watson twitched for a moment, but she was still asleep. He considered sitting next to her, holding her hand but he simultaneously relinquished the idea. "For how long will she be out?" he pondered. He needed to talk to her, to let her know he's bitterly sorry for what he did. He could barely prevent the words from streaming out, but the thought that he would be talking to an anaesthetised body made him change his mind. As he sat there and watched her slumber, he could feel the burden on his shoulders gradually wear off. It had been quite a strenuous day for him as well-it took him more than three hours to trace the kidnapper down- but his tension and restlessness hadn't allowed him a moment of peace. Finally, everything seemed to have fallen into place. He imagined that his insomnia would not let him sleep but eventually he succumbed to his natural needs and closed his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I didn't over-do it with the tension in the last scene of this chapter. I thought that there wasn't any room for anything romantic-it would spoil the moment, so I kept it neat. Please note that some of the ideas may seem familiar to you(a lot of them are from books I've read and I probably can't recall.)

   His sleep was interrupted by a light knock coming from the kitchen. Sherlock pried his eyes open and immediately realised that Watson was up. He managed to lift himself up and rushed to the kitchen, to find her reaching for a glass from the shelf with her left hand. Her other arm was wrapped in a black sling.

   "Good, Watson, you're awake" he announced but she did not reply nor raise her stare. Instead, she filled the glass with water, passed in front of him sluggishly and headed to the living room. He was dazed, but, still determined to talk to her, he followed.

   "Are you planning to rest again?" he asked while she browsed through some books on the library.

   "Why?" she replied quite unwillingly.

   "Well, there are a few matters I'd like us to discuss."

   She sighed. "If you are interested in my statement, you can call Gregson. But I suggest that you do it _in the morning."_ she murmured, emphasising on the last three words.

   "No, not this sort"

   "Sherlock, I am really _not_ in the mood right now. I.. need some time." she said and headed towards the staircase. 

   _"Time?"_ he asked puzzled while following her.

   "Yes, time". She stopped in the middle of the stairs and turned around to face him. There was an irate expression on her face that made him even more crestfallen. "To process everything."

   "Well, you're quite lucky. You have a whole week at your disposal for reflection.

   "How can you even be so _indifferent?_ " she lashed out. "I could be dead!"

   "Watson, we are detectives. You know that the line of work that we do is not without its perils."

   She didn't even bother to respond. She merely sighed and then climbed the rest of the stairs, slamming her bedroom door.

*********************************************************

 

   _Time._

   They say a lot of things about it. They say that  it is the wisest of all councelors, they say that only it can heal the wounds. They even say that, along with patience, it accomplishes more that strenght and passion. _But who are "they" really? And what do they know about living? How much is there to know about it anyway?_

 _  
_    Sherlock found himself in a state of utter disappointment. Not in Watson, but in himself. _Why was he even doing this? Was it his natural tendency to contradict everything she ever said?_ He wanted to apologise for tracing them down so late, for letting Moriarty get to her, for not being there for her, but instead he managed to quarrel with her.

   With the absolute certainty that sleep would elude him this time, he decided to dig into some cold cases. For a man like Sherlock Holmes, distraction could never be easily achieved, so he ended up spending his extra brain fuel on three cases, seven TV programmes and an online chess tournament.

***********************************************************

 

_Ah! A breath of November in New York._

_  
_    Joan Watson loved the autumn. There was something in the cold, misty mornings that brought back memories of the past; there was a balance, a harmony between summer and winter, order and chaos, between life and death. As she tossed in her bed, she couldn't help but notice the absence of his annoying morning natterings, his persistence to pick out her clothes, his endless lectures on her sleeping habits. It was the first morning that she hadn't been forced to wake up in a very long time. She couldn't tell if she was truly _missing it_ , or if it was merely the deviation from the norm that bothered her but, nonetheless, it was an insipid sentiment that she could not simply ignore.

   This morning, she mused to herself, was a morning of _firsts._ The first morning to wake up by herself, the first morning to wake up with an unbearable burn on her right shoulder, the first morning to feel _uncertain, afraid._ The effect of the drugs that had put her in a lull had faded away entirely, letting her mind process what had happened. What had started as a casual coffee with Emily has led to her abduction, her interrogation and a wound that would unquestionably trouble her for a long time. Moriarty had proven to have ears and hands everywhere; even from behind the bars she seemed to easily manipulate her lieutenants.

 

   She was surprised to find him sitting in the armchair in the living room, staring outside and into the street. She found it hard to imagine that Sherlock could let his mind just _be._

   "No cold cases to dig into?" she asked while realising that her throat was sore. He turned and met her eyes.

   "No, nothing quite intriguing." replied he. He didn't feel like mentioning that in the last 8 hours he had solved zero cases, could recall absolutely nothing from what was shown in his seven TV's and had managed to get disqualified in the first round of the chess tournament.

   She sat on the sofa and looked at him, who seemed contained and sullen. Like, after all these years, he had finally realised that he could use his brain simply  _to recollect, to ruminate, to weigh._ She let the silence stretch for a moment or two.

   "Do you think he would have killed me?" she asked finally. Sherlock looked at her and took his time to answer as if he were rummaging for the right words.

   "I don't know. But I think there are worse things he could do to you than kill you. And to me, so to speak."

   "You mean, doing what she did to Irene?" She had considered that too.

   Sherlock nodded slowly. Up to that point, it hadn't occured to her how vexing the last day must have been for him, when he had to face the possiblity of losing her forever.

   "Thank you" she fumbled. "For saving me." Immediately, his face lit up. "I still mean what I said yesterday, though. About needing some time to think."

   " I understand." His shoulders sagged. "And _what do you think?"_ he ventured to ask.

   "I think.." she began, but then halted. "I think that I have never been afraid before in my life." She averted her eyes from his. "You know it's like when you hear that one of your old friends is sick or even dying. And you can't help but think " _it could have been me. I could be the one to get cancer or have had the heart-attack"_ But it's not _exactly_ the same. Because if I hadn't decided to...stay, I wouldn't- _we wouldn't be having this conversation now."_ _  
_

"Do you regret it?" he asked absently. "Not having taken the six-week vacation?"

   She dithered. "At times like this, yes-when you got shot, more than ever."

   Sherlock looked at her numbly.

   "You know, I used to be a doctor", she continued. "I was used to diseases, death, cadavers.. But I had never thought that one day, _I'll be_ the anaesthetised body on the table and _my life_ will be in the hands of a stranger. That.. I could die. That _I will die."_

 _  
_    He understood. We learn to embrace the mortality of others, he pondered. It takes time, but we ultimately do. But to embrace the mortality of ourselves? The self-concious mind cannot fathom non-existence. It is impossible to do.

   She had never imagined that hurting could ever _hurt_ so much. Not physically, of course, but _mentally._ She could handle physical pain-it was tangible, measureable. What she could not handle was that piercing soreness that burnt her stomach and made its way through her lungs, heart and straight into her mouth. That dark, abysmal sense of morbidity.

   "I hate to sound platitudicous, Watson, but the body is weak. It comes with an expiration date. Our so-called souls" he groaned sarcastically, "cannot last eternally. And the sooner one concilliates with one's nature, the better. No one has ever escaped oblivion and, I daresay, no one ever will." He could not continue. The words were all there, in his mind, but he could not articulate them. But she understands, she knows. As if his eyes were speaking to her words that his voice would never enunciate. She knows that life itself is merely a hopeless cry for help, a shout in the void. That there will come a day when all our diligence will be returned to dust and all our light will fade into the darkness. She didn't revel it, but she was quite familiar with the concept of entropy. _Everything falls apart,_ she could hear her high school teacher so clearly in her mind.

   Sherlock managed to break the silence.

   "If you were to ask me, I think that's the beauty of it." he heard himself saying as he lifted himself up and stood by the fireplace. "I mean about the eternal, dreamless sleep, about the soft darkness. It is what we all beings share." And, as he looked at the fire, which burning slowly, almost quielty, he brought back to his mind one of his favourite Edvard Munch quotes: " _From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that's eternity_." He smiled to himself. Watson kept rumminating his words in her head, unable to respond. And he, who was strangely silent, seemed to use all his notion to observe the flames enfolding the warm stumps.

   Realising she was on the verge of breaking down to tears, she stood up.

   "I.." she fumbled."I'll get myself some water" she said and turned her back.

   "Just before you go-" he interrupted her. Watson halted but, as she felt the first tear running down her cheek,she didn't turn around.

   "Even if this..predicament means the end of our partnership, I.. I'd like to thank you. Before I met you,Watson, my life was quite different. I could _live_ my life for the cases, I could almost _give_ my entire life for them. What I could not realise was how adrift I truly was. The cases were like _stars in the night sky._ Now I can finally fathom those stars into _beautiful constellations._ " He paused, clearing up his throat. "I know we've had rough times, but, at the end of the day, you seem to have filled my life with something that even I didn't know was missing. You..you showed me that life exists in breathtaking, captivating forms apart from my proverbial puzzles. That puzzles is one thing in life-but there's  _more, far more."_ He watched her as she turned around, her wet eyes meeting his. "So, even if you do not feel as I do in this, which is understandable, I'd still like to say that I am grateful for what you have been to me the past two years."

   "Sherlock, you don't need me anymore to stay sober."

   "You are right" he assured her. "But I do need you. In order to _stay alive, to keep functioning._ "

   She was surprised by his words that she didn't notice she had derailed into a breakdown of tears.

   For a moment or two, he found himself dithering. Hesitating. His eyes were still fixed on hers, which were red and damp. Joan was looking at him motionless, astonished. He wanted to console her, but he was afraid-he was afraid she would misjudge his way, that she would feel uncomfortable. He was not used to gestures like this anyway. Then, without further speculation, he decided to pass his arms around her waist and hugged her warily. His body was stiff and firm, clearly uncertain, but as she rested her head on his chest, it felt right. He could feel her tension, the need to let it all out. He could smell the vanilla oil on her skin and the light peach scent of her hair. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he found himself _feeling_ rather than _thinking._ Physical contact didn't make him weary, didn't stress him out. He doesn't have to analyse Watson, analyse _anything._ It's all in front of him- she has finally allowed to herself the simple pleasure of crying and he had merely embraced it. Watson is a strong woman, Sherlock knew it, but the glimpse of mortality would have shocked even the less meek. She had to let it all out-the dread, the fear of emptiness, the soreness that followed.

   He also knew that being a friend-for that's what he was to her- entailed mastering the art of timing. And that was the time for silence. The time when she could sink in her thoughts. And those thoughts, she realised, were intimidating for her. There was this clarity in her thinking that was stark and..almost frightening. She couldn't tell if she was actually _afraid_ of dying, but she definitely didn't _want to._

   He, on the other hand, had been on the threshold of death far too often to be fretted by it. There was a time where he'd play with death every single day. _Because,_ he contemplated, _sticking a needle in his arm was much more alike to sticking a blade in his chest than he could ever admit_. Getting high was like being temporarily dead-his mind so blank, so vacant, his body disobeying him in every possible way. And, if not for her, he'd still be _dead._ No, he realised, the fear of him dying didn't cause him even the slightest of emotions. The fear of _her dying_ , though, touched him in parts of his soul than he never knew to exist. And now, as he could feel the palpitations of her heart on his chest and her unsteady, shuddering breath on his neck, as he could hear her silent cry, he had a rare moment of clarity. He could examine the workings of his heart, much as he would explicitly deny its existence. He could not imagine how _life after Joan_ would be like. He felt that, should she decide to leave, a piece of himself, a piece of who he had become would be lost.

   "Does it ever go away?" she mumbled. "That scent of burnt flesh, that feeling of decay?"

   He half-smiled and squeezed her. "No" replied he.

   "I am sorry" he continued after a while, "for the glimpse of mortality that you got".

   "You saved me, Sherlock. I am here."

   "I apologise for my behaviour towards this man. You needed someone. _A friend._ And I truly believe it is the most mortifying of reflections for a man to consider what he has done, compared to what he _might_ have done. So, I made a vow earlier today. And the vow was, I will never say or do anything that could not stand as the last thing I ever say or do."

 

   Watson smiled somberly. And, as the beats of her heart slowly calmed down, adjusting to his, as the rhythm of his body, of each cell that he consisted of decoyed hers in a slower movement, she felt that there was no need to say anything. Even the most terse reply that she could ever cpme up with seemed too much. So, instead, she chose to be able to reminisce this moment for its meaningful silence.

_  
_

 

 

  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case I am referring to is "The Adventure of the Norwick Builder". It can be found in Sir Arthur Connan Doyle's book, "The Return of Sherlock Holmes". I had to make a few adjustments of course so that I'd look more like a 21st century case. Although I made a lot of things up, there's still a problem I could not fix, but let it slip away; the case is supposed to have taken place in the 90's, when dna profiling had already been invented(it was invented at around 1985). i couldn't make it take place before then, because Sherlock would have been a kid at that time, and I needed him at the crime scene. So, just ignore it. Also, in the canon, Sherlock is the one to solve the case.  
> Finally, the final sentence is an original quote by Emily Bronte, but it seemed to fit so perfectly that I couldn't help but use it.

   She could not believe what she was about to announce to him. Four months ago, when he handed her his cold cases, she could never imagine that this moment would ever arrive. And, if she were to be honest with herself, she wasn't sure how Sherlock would take it. " _I have given them my all. You may even succeed where I have failed."_ she could still hear his voice echoing on the back of her head.

   Joan found him in the living room, sitting on his favourite armchair with the violin on his lap. It had been quite a long time since he last played. It must have been before Irene-Moriarty's revealation, she pondered. But, even now, he wasn't playing. He seemed to be changing one of its strings. Calmly, she sat on the sofa and observed him as his steady hands gently touched the instrument of his childhood.

   "Do you remember the case of the Norwood Builder?" she asked him out of the blue. "The one who was supposedly murdered in a fire outside his house?"

   He lifted his eyes and fixed them somewhere between her and the fireplace. "Oh yes-Mr. Oldcare. Unused bed, signs of struggle, open safe, charcoal ashes of fire. Murdered by the man who drafted his will, a will that granted him quite a substantial amount of money. A man who had no connection whatsoever with Mr. Oldcare. Yes, I recall it vaguely. Mr McFarland was sentenced for a lifetime, if my memory serves me."

   "Well, I've read your notes about the crime scene. You were absolutely sure that the bloody thumbprint was _not_ in the hall the day you examined it."

   " _Absolutely_   is not the word I'd use. _Fairly certain_ would be more accurate, I reckon. The human memory can often be erroneous, Watson, even mine."

   "Well, anyway, I trust you in this" she said and felt her cheeks blushing. "So, say that you're right" she continued, "and with McFarland spending the night in jail, someone else must have placed the fingerprint there. Originally, it didn't strike me, but then I remembered the case took place back in the 90's. When the packets of the will were sealed up, Oldcare must have got McFarlane to secure one of those by putting his thumb upon soft wax."

   "Yes, I've examined that possibility myself. But, if Oldcare wanted to frame McFarlane, how could he appear, _if he were even still alive?_   They found traces of skin in the reminants of the conflagration. And why go all that trouble to incriminate a stranger?"

   "A _seemingly_ stranger" she replied. "But I'll get to that. First, I wanna tell you about this name I kept bumping into- Mr. Cornelius, the man who received a large amount of checks a while before Oldcare's "murder". So, I did a little background check on Mr. Cornelius, and he seems one of Switzerland's largest tycoons. What caught my attention though were his regural visits to Norwood, even years after the murder of Oldcare. Why? Well I don't think he was sentimental about his benefactor. Then, I noticed that, five years ago, those visits stopped. To be percise, his _last_   visit was a week after Oldcare's mother passed away." Sherlock was now staring at her, his eyes half-closed. "And everything fell into pieces when I found out that Oldcare's mother was buried in Delemont, Switzerland, where Mr. Cornelius resides." His face lit up.

   "So" he interrupted, "you believe that _Cornelius_ is  merely an alias for the "murdered" man himself?"

   "I do. It makes sense, doesn't it? I mean, smindle your creditors by paying checks to _yourself,_ fake your own death and start a new life miles away."

   "And what about MacFarlane?"

   "Oh, yes" she said animatedly and felt as if their roles were reversed. "I found out that McFarlane's mother, who is still alive, had turned Mr. Oldcare's marriage proposals down twice. I spoke to the housekeeper-she's around 80, but still quite astute. She confirmed that Mr. Oldcare had proposed to her twice and, after his second rejection, he seemed quite vexed. She claimed that she had no idea that Cher-Mc Farlane's mother-had a son, let alone the man that was accused for having murdured her boss, that's probably why no one ever made that connection before. So, we have our motive for framing MacFarlane-he was Cher's only child."

   "Strong motives indeed. Vengence, and the opportunity of starting anew. There's only one problem. How did he manage to escape when everyone was looking for him? The detectives searched every nook and cranny-" He stopped as his face lit up. He had just passed the threshold of an epiphany. "Of course" he continued and met her eyes, while he noticed a smile being drawn all over her face. "Mr. Oldcare was a builder."

   She nodded her head and let him finish it. To be frank with herself, this turn of tables unnerved her.

   "He could have built a safety-room and then, after the case was closed, he could escape without drawing even the slightest attention." His voice had now grown fast and excited. "If not for his pathological need to improve what was already _perfect-by adding those thumbprints on the crime scene-_ , we-you", he corrected himself, "would have never solved it. That was quite impressive, Watson." he said while nodding his head. "Quite impressive indeed." He paused for a moment. "I reckon this means you have decided to stay. I knew you could never reach a different decision. Pray tell, doesn't the very thought of your ex-life appear so mundane, so conventional to you? Admit it, you'd never sacrifice who you truly are and what you love doing."

   "Don't push your luck" replied she as she made herself comfortable on the sofa and rested her wounded shoulder on its arm. She knew Sherlock was absolutely right. She knew that, her deciding to stay on as his partner was the point of no return. Because, once she took up detective work, she found out it filled her with satisfaction, joy and fulfillment and made her realise how "empty" she used to be.

   "I am happy, Watson" he said after a brief moment of silence. "Not just for you, but for me as well. I think that I have made it as clear as day that I enjoy our partnership immensly. Finally, we can go back to..what we had."

   She didn't reply for a moment. "Hey, remember what you said a few months ago about marriage being an unnatural arrangement?"

   "Hmm.?"

   "Don't you think that what _we_ have is an unnatural arrangement?"

   He gave it some thought. "For us or for the others?"

   Joan looked at him sceptically.

   "For the third parties, certainly. But that matters very little. What truly matters is merely how _you and I_ feel about it. If you are asking me how what we have _looks_ to conventional people, then yes-it is an unnatural arrangement-even more unnatural than matrimony." he replied as he placed the violin in its case.

   Silence followed once again. She really seemed to enjoy those quiet intervals between their conversations. It allowed them time for reflection and for _haptic communication, as Sherlock would say._ And, just by looking in his eyes, she instantly knew she had made the right decision. But there was one more thing she really wanted to ask-

   "Anyway, there's something that you said the other day, that just kept spinning around my head. About _souls."_

   "What about them?" he asked thoughtfully.

   "Well you said, and I quote, "our so-called souls" in such a sarcastic tone that I imagined-"

   "You are asking me if I believe in the existence of souls? No, I don't."

   "You don't?" she lashed out. 'How can you not?"

   "Well, I don't think I could have made myself much clearer. I believe in _brain function,_ in _cells,_ in _neurons._ I do not believe in unfathomable entities, such as souls."

   "And, what about Plato, or..or Aristotle? Didn't they believe that a soul is the incorporeal and immortal essence of a person?"

   "Much as I appreciate the Greek Philosophers, I'd say we've come a long way since then, hmm? A soul has never been seen under a microscope nor spun in a test tube or ultra-centrifuge. The concept of a non-substantial substence is an oxymoron, Doctor." replied he, emphasising on the last word.

   "What about the work of Dr. Duncan MacDougall?"

   "You mean that quacksalver who tried to measure the human soul? I am of the opinion that he is a disgrace to the whole lot of your former occupation. Anyway, his findings were brought into question due to their extreme variability, and you must know they are regarded as false. To believe in the concept of a soul, Watson, one must believe in the concept of faith."

   "Well, I do not think that you need scientific proof of the soul neither do you need blind faith. You can choose to ignore it, as you seem to do, or you can remember it constantly. But you know it exists as you know your own existence."

   Sherlock half-closed his eyes and inspected Watson. Determined that she was right, she dared to fix her eyes on his. _Was he actually considering what she had just said? Or was he merely seeking for a clever  way to retort?_ For a moment, she wished she could run her fingers in his soul-mind-or whatever he'd call it- and see what he saw. And feel what he felt.

   She couldn't tell how much time had gone by since they first started playing their visual chess, but he finally made a move. "I never thought that we would ever resort to topics of a more philosophical nature. I have a proposal to offer. I'll go make breakfast and we shall resume our conversation then, hmm? I am confident that aliment will enhance your arguing skills." She nodded her head and tried to get up, but he prevented her by raising his finger. "No, no, you rest, Watson. We must not contradict to your convalescence. Captain's orders! I'll be here in twenty minutes. " he said while turning his back and made his way to the kitchen.

   And, as she could no longer see his expression, he smiled. His smile was wide and honest, and, as he caught himself smiling, he felt a warmth he had never felt before. It seemed as if everything was exactly the way it was ment to be. Four months ago, when he gave her his trunk of cold cases, Sherlock was deep inside  _afraid._ Not afraid that Watson would ever solve a case, but afraid of how _that would make_   _him feel._ But no, he was glad his partner had managed to succeed where he had failed. Because that's what partnership is about after all. _There is not his or hers. There is we,_ he contemplated. And the fact that her deductive skills had meliorated to such degree as to challenge him constantly gave him inexpressible joy. He was also glad that she had allowed him a piece of herself, an insight to her mind, to a so different but yet so interesting perspective. _And yes, perhaps souls exist. Perhaps they are the reflections of our brains._ He didn't want to jump to conclusions, though. They had almost a full week to reach to an agreement.

   She, on the other hand, sat on the sofa, still staring at the hallway, already waiting for him to return. Because, the sooner he returned, the sooner they'd continue their conversation. It was right what they said after all, about two broken people managing to fix each other. _Yes,_ she mused to herself. _Whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same._


End file.
